by Casey Herzog
The transport took a final turn and slowed to a stop. The hatches on the side of the compartment’s walls began to slide shut again and the boy sighed heavily. He’d been expecting the moment of arrival with excitement, but only dread filled him as he realized it had finally come.
There was tapping on the outside of the vehicle, and he stood back from the door, his hand reaching down into his the inside of his pants in case he needed to pull out the small knife hidden within—
“Hello there,” an elderly man said with a smile. He was thin and of average height, a well-dressed grandfather-type figure with his few strands of hair combed back over his pasty-skinned scalp. “Oh, don’t be afraid,” he said with a friendly tone and extended a hand, “I’m not going to harm you. How was your trip?”
Dante was taken aback. Until now, he had never met anyone in this world without feeling apprehension, fear, or at least a certain sense of caution. With this old man, it was as if he had come across the only exception left on Earth.
“It was good,” he managed to say, part of him wondering why he was already answering the stranger’s questions. He accepted the man’s help and hopped off the back of the truck after grabbing the remaining bottle of water from the compartment. “What happens next? Who are you?” The questions were blunt, but he needed answers right away if he was going to trust these people.
“My name is Brant Albridge, and I am the Spiritual Lord Chancellor of this house of knowledge. I have never come out to meet a student personally, but I’ve been waiting for you for such a long time, Dante Castello…” His voice trailed off, as his warm brown eyes locked onto Dante’s own green ones. “You will be welcomed to our society shortly. As for your other question, well,” he gestured to the area around him, and only then did Dante see the other people standing around in wait: a dozen or so elegant men and women of varying ages who seemed to be of lower rank than Brant and a squad of armored soldiers dressed similarly to those at the outpost, “You decide what happens, Dante. The world is yours.”
Brant turned and began to walk away towards the waiting group so Dante followed, hurriedly keeping up with the man as his long strides took him away from the vehicle before the healer could even realize it. As Dante turned to look at the truck one last time, he saw the two men who had driven him there and caught one of them staring at him. The man’s gaze was strange, his look clearly trying to tell him more than words ever would. It’s the man who spoke to me, clearly, Dante knew. He was tall and dark-skinned with a face of an old soul who had seen too much in his life. The man’s stare spoke to him before Dante tore his eyes away and back to Brant and his group.
It said two words: “Be careful.”
Curious looks mixed with envious glares. Dante tried not to make eye contact with anyone, but it was clear that he was an anomaly in an already-established system based on a respectful distance between students and staff. He was breaking the mold of what pupils received as a greeting by showing up with the highest-ranking member of the University — escorting him no less — leading him to a place where they’d probably talk in private.
For all the distrust and suspicion that the healer felt, he was loving every minute of it.
“Sir,” a robed woman said as she approached and attempted to keep her voice quiet, “Surely I can take the child the rest of the way, no? Your presence might be required elsewhere.”
The Lord Chancellor simply shook his head and continued walking. Dante noticed that the squad of guards had gone, but the other men and women were accompanying them all the way. Their faces were concealed, but there was something else. As if they were blurry and hidden to my eyes.
The building’s interiors were beautiful: the massive entrance hall was mostly white marble inlaid with gold, and a cream coffered ceiling illuminated with soft lighting that made the place look like a palace of sorts. Thick, round, tapered columns held up the structure and a twin staircase of beautiful black and white stairs led up to a mezzanine floor. Dante’s eyes twinkled as he saw the architecture and the nature of the building; he had never imagined he’d see anything like it while he lived.
I probably won’t ever see it again, he thought.
They didn’t go up the stairs, instead walking between them down a corridor that seemed to lead deeper into the building and past many sets of ornate doors. There were symbols and names beside each door that indicated staff offices or other facilities. The procession was led in silence, and Dante felt he was part of something big.
Though corridors branched out and stairs led up and down from their own passage, Albridge always walked straight ahead to the very back of the seemingly huge building. It wasn’t until ten minutes later when Dante looked up to see the great entrance awaiting them. It was a metal door the height of two men, its smooth, dark gray surface lined with words of different tongues and rare symbols with meanings unknown to the boy.
The doors parted as they approached, swinging inward ever so slightly with each passing second and revealing the chamber within.
Where the rest of the building had been magnificent, this room was something entirely different. It was made of a plain reflective material that — if not for a faint dullness on its surface — would have made it seem that the floors, walls and ceiling had been covered with mirrors. There was scant furniture, with a few personal items sitting on the desk or resting against the wall on a shelf, but it seemed that they’d most likely arrived at this most important man’s office.
“Welcome, Dante. You are not only in our house now, but in my home as well.” He smiled and gestured to a comfortable-looking chair nearby. “Sit.”
Dante obeyed, and watched as the man walked to his desk and toggled some controls. The room’s lighting dimmed, and a long, curved metal bench emerged from the floor. No wonder the place is so empty, everything is hidden. It was an interesting touch. One by one, each of the welcoming party sat on the bench, leaving a space in the middle for their superior.
Albridge was the last to sit, his back straight and his hands clasping each other firmly as he began to speak.
“Dante, I know you will have many questions about what this place is, who we are and maybe even who you are, but we shall answer those with time.” He paused, seeming to think of something. “I have a question of my own — what did you feel when you entered the tunnel at the very entrance of this place? What happened?”
Dante’s alarm bells immediately rang. He hadn’t been expected to have this subject thrown at him like this, and he wondered what the right thing to say was.
“I felt strange, to be honest. Very strange and unwell, and then I blacked out for a while.”
The spiritual leader seemed to feel only half-satisfied with the answer.
“And what else happened? What did you see when you blacked out?”
Dante remained silent. He kept silent for the longest time before finally answering.
“I saw a memory I had thought locked up and lost to me forever.”
Brant Albright smiled. He scratched lightly on his beard and tilted his head down a little. Suddenly, there was something not so nice about him as he lifted it once more and asked a question.
“What would you say if I told you that it was me that entered your mind?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
~Trifecta~
An operator sat in front of a screen, her eyes darting across the information rushing across it. She had long ago received discreet enhancements to her eyes and mind to ensure her continued and uninterrupted observation, but she was still very human, and humans were full of doubts.
Operator 07-03A — or Angela, as she’d been named at birth — was not alone in the chamber, for there were a dozen other like her: young men and women who served their force by surveiling their assigned areas and ensuring that activity remained within the boundaries of the norm.
Even in a post-war world where ‘law’ and ‘order’ were long-dead words, there was a limit to the amount of chaos and disruption permitted in an
area before it needed to be dealt with. Earth had suffered enough to allow conflicts to escalate and destruction to continue razing what remained of the globe.
Angela had watched the activity taking place in and around Ayia for a while, her mind screaming at her to report to her superiors, but her heart begging her not to. The tale of the city’s warlord was as familiar to her as a childhood story was to an adult who had grown up reading it — she had watched Lord Russell’s twisted rise since his arrival to the metropolis a few years back. It had caused her certain pleasure to watch his empire collapse around him, despite her training forbidding her from involving herself personally with the sectors she had been assigned on arrival.
Nevertheless, she had just spotted something that had pushed things too far. With a soft, inaudible sigh, the young woman activated her voice-link.
“Operator 07-03A reporting security risk at sector 03-15, quadrant B79. Requesting alert level raise to Amber.”
She awaited a response and kept her eyes on the screen for a few more moments. There was something about the territories surrounding the University that worried her. The motives of the patrol force guarding the campus were becoming grayer by day, their soldiers often finding themselves at odds with the Coalition itself.
“Request received, 07-03A. Motive?”
The object on her screen began to move. She hadn’t needed the movement to confirm its nature, but it definitely helped convince her she was doing the right thing. I’m sorry, whoever you are, she said to the screen, aware that whoever had attacked Ayia was at the place she was watching, but you’ve broken the rules.
“Unknown hostiles possessing a foreign aircraft, I repeat, foreign operative aircraft.” She paused and voiced the words that needed to be said. “They’re flying an Outsider ship.”
There was a long silence on the other side of the link and Angela stared at the screen. Finally, the operator on the other side spoke.
“Very well, 07-03A, request accepted. Forces have been dispatched. You may continue your surveillance. Good work.”
The young woman licked her lips anxiously. One thing was for sure now that she had made her report…
…The Coalition was bringing the big guns to sector 03-15.
The truck rocked and lifted, slamming back down onto the ground with a crash. Russell groaned in annoyance. He’d been resting until then, his body forcibly putting him to sleep to recover from the days of endless walking and the fighting he’d partaken in. He smiled through the discomfort, remembering how he’d killed the scavengers at the wreckage of the Coalition tank and found the items there. One of them was still recharging: the inactive shield generator that had helped him take the bridge checkpoint by storm without suffering a single wound; the other was still concealed inside his shoulder enhancement.
The Whisperer and his men had taken his weapons — including his sword, the bastards — but they had not checked him thoroughly enough. If he could get a hand loose, then perhaps, he could reveal his final surprise for Reiner and his men. His fingers clenched involuntarily in their bindings and he knew what was coming next. Shit, he thought, and the wave of pain crashed over him violently. He let out a soft sigh and struggled to get to his feet. With his hands tied, he could only smack his head against the walls of the truck to ease the discomfort, so he launched himself forward and impacted the metal side of his head with force. It calmed the pain and urges down for a moment, but they would soon return. A couple more blows against the metal made them fade.
Russell allowed himself to fall to his knees. He had never been away from his tower and his staff for so long. There were people there who produced the drugs that kept me going; who knows what the fuck’s going to happen to me now that I have no access to them? His bionic eye clicked and whirred and he turned in time to hear the speaker activate.
“What the hell is going on back there, Russell? Behave!” Another voice laughed in the background — he was being watched, clearly.
Russell looked around in an attempt to find a camera, but he had no luck in his search. He sat back down on the bench and waited, clenching and unclenching his metal fist. These movements were voluntary, as voluntary as the moment when his hand would choke the life from Reiner’s body and crush his windpipe before the man died.
His moment of freedom would come sooner or later. When it did, Russell knew: he was going to unleash hell.
The cold northern wind whipped on their faces and the rush of speed raced through their bones. The Whisperer clenched his teeth and accelerated his bike, the reassuring weight of his rifle strapped on his back giving him cause to feel safe. The truck in the center of the bike formation would ensure that they had a shield to hide behind if the bullets came flying, and the element of surprise would ensure the enemy got hit as hard as they could.
They were probably expecting him to head straight towards their base in a rush, but Reiner was not going to be so predictable. Thanks to November, the Angels’ techie, they’d located the truck’s tracking device and had toggled its settings to show a fake path. If the enemies were tracking the vehicle, they would probably be watching it hurtling straight towards their outpost.
“I’ve spotted the village!” Cross yelled over the noise, his finger pointing over at a collection of run-down shacks and homes. Such places had been born during the war thanks to the necessities of those displaced from their homes; unfortunately, the lives of those communities had come to a quick end when the bombs fell and all of their inhabitants were either forced to run, die or become mutated by the effects of the plummeting projectiles. Many were still irradiated, but the group of vicious motorcyclists cared little for the conditions in the muddy streets between the shacks and crude buildings — all that mattered was that they could hide within it until the enemy went out looking for them.
“How do we know they won’t just come and surround the village, killing us all?” one of the men had asked Reiner during their planning phase. He’d turned to the speaker, his icy gaze chilling the man on the spot.
“If they do, they’ll still die.” He’d done this before a hundred times. There were few things that could multiply a small force’s power than an enclosed space and a lot of cover. The dirt roads of the town gave them both of these. Their mobility also ensured they would be a real pain in the ass to fight, and would have a way to get to the enemy base before the enemies could do so themselves.
“Let’s go!” he cried, turning into their destination. The truck had trouble driving into the village itself, so Reiner ordered the driver to hide it inside a small warehouse on the outskirts. Thirty houses, two larger buildings, a church and a few warehouses composed the entirety of the place, and the Whisperer was reminded of the same place where he’d been defeated by the mysterious soldier and his child companion. The oilfield village. The wound still burned — literally, though he’d finally allowed Cross to see to it — and he hoped for a final chance at getting his revenge.
He sent a man to the church’s bell tower and took the top of the school for himself. The building was crumbling, and he hoped he didn’t get hit by explosives or it would be the end for him. All of his men except the truck driver were out waiting for the enemy to pass or come towards them. It was a nervy moment as they waited for the enemy’s expected counterattack that would inevitably come after the damage that had been inflicted on them. It was worth it, he felt. They had captured the bastard Russell and a truck, and now were more powerful than ever. The warlord could even be used as a hostage or bargaining chip if anything went wrong.
It took an hour of waiting before the first sign of enemies presented itself. November heard them first, the young man hearing the sound of an engine from where he sat on the second floor of an ugly, makeshift house. His soft whistle alerted them all, and the other ten remaining Angels of the Apocalypse straightened where they stood or sat, their weapons rising a few inches as the noise of an engine rose as it approached them from a few miles away.
Let them come, Reiner
thought, his heart beating quicker with each passing moment, I will take whatever they have and use it against them. We’ll stuff the truck full of bodies to accompany Russell until we reach the outpost; though maybe he’ll like that, the sick bastard.
The first truck was followed quickly by another, but they weren’t heading for the village at all. A feeling of disappointment passed over the Angels as they watched the trucks speed past on the road and head straight towards the bridge. A third vehicle sped by a moment later, and then a fourth. The distant sight of two more made Reiner think twice. We were lucky. He grinned and nodded at each of his men in turn, whistling softly for the truck driver in the warehouse to be ready. We’re ready.
“Okay men, the time has come.” It had been a few minutes since they’d seen the enemy transports; the time to strike was now. “Load your weapons and rev your engines. It’s time we att—”
BOOM
The church tower detonated, the massive bell flying out of its insides and landing many feet away, its weight crushing a shack into dust. The bloody remains of the man inside the tower dangled out of the ruins and fell with a disgusting meaty slap to the ground below.